In Love with a Thug (15 page)

“And who might the tipster be?” the judge asked, cutting off the sergeant in mid sentence.

“The unknown tipster would like to remain anonymous, Your Honor,” said the white sergeant whose face was beginning to turn red at the answer the judge was about to give him.

“Well, Sergeant Silverman, with all due respect, this case cannot proceed unless you reveal the tipster and the allegations,” explained the judge.

“Okay, sir, to proceed, the tipster, whose name is Melissa Childs, called in a tip last night to South detectives, stating that the perpetrator—who as I said is present in the courtroom—was Mr. Juan Jiles.” He pointed to me as I stood next to him.
No the fuck this bitch didn't lie on Bryant and me. She's gone too far.

“As the tip came, myself and Detective Barnes handled the report that stated Mr. Jiles and Mr. Thompson were hiding illegal drugs in the Presidential Suites apartment building on Presidential Boulevard in Philadelphia. Once we'd received the tip and had the magistrate sign off on the search warrant, we then executed the warrant and went to the suspect's home where we found three bricks of cocaine, numerous bags of marijuana and a firearm under the bed—a nine-millimeter handgun.

As the sergeant went on with the story my heart fell deeper into the pit of my stomach.

“Plus, Your Honor, when Captain Ingram, along with myself, reached the apartment we found a small brown paper bag sitting on the table that contained small amounts of cocaine, crack rock, and the street term ecstasy pills.” I turned around to look at the expression on Rob's face; he seemed flabbergasted. The judge began writing figures down as I stood there with my dick getting hard from the cold air that came in from the vent.

“Okay, Mr. Jiles. Your bail is set at five hundred thousand dollars cash. Are you able to post that today?” He looked at me as if he expected an answer on the spot.

“No, not at this time,” I answered.

“Okay, until your bail is paid through a licensed Pennsylvania bail bondsman, you are to be housed at the Philadelphia Federal Correctional Facility.” He then banged his gavel on the desk. Almost immediately tears fell from my eyes as the sheriffs took me away into the holding cell. I had never been to jail. I feared for my life.
Someone, please help me.
I closed my eyes and prayed very hard.
God, please help Your child.

Now I knew who had planted the drugs in my house.
But when did he find the time and how did Melissa know?

By the time we got to the federal prison all of my tears had dried but I still cried silently on the inside. The blue-and-white school bus pulled inside of a garage known as the intake unit. Me and three other people were shackled together as we walked inside the building. I was led into another holding cell until my name was called to trade my boxer briefs in for a pair of county blues.

After changing into my blues I was given an inmate number which was 981571. I was no longer Juan Jiles. I walked into an area that was known to me as a pod. D-Pod was what they called it. I heard the sounds of people yelling from their cells, TVs and radios blasting.

“We got fresh meat on the block,” yelled someone from their cell as I walked up the steps carrying my blanket and sheets in my arms. I couldn't let the other inmates know how scared I was of them and from watching a lot of TV programs I made sure that I would never let a nigga see me sweat.

“Open five cell,” yelled the C.O. from the bottom tier. I walked into the cell of two African American young bulls no older than eighteen.

“What's up?” asked the light-skinned dude who wore his hair braided long past his shoulders. The other guy just lay on the top bunk reading a newspaper pretending as if he didn't see me.

“Ayo, what's the deal?” I responded, trying to act hard.

“You can take that bunk right there,” the cutie said as I walked over to the bunk to begin making my bed.

“So how long you in here for?” he asked as the other dude turned his face away from the paper. I looked up in his direction and nodded my head to let him know that I noticed him. He nodded back.

“Man, I don't even know. They got me in here on some nutass shit,” I said. See I could talk that talk when I wanted to. The light-skinned dude walked over to me with an extended arm.

“My name is Dre,” he said, now shaking his hand. I put my hand out to shake his. I could tell from the difference in the texture of my skin that we both didn't share the same taste in moisturizing cream.

“I'm Jay,” I greeted. I took the liberty of walking over to the other bunk where the other guy was and extended my hand to him as well.

“Just call me J-Rock,” he said, shaking my hand with a tight grip. This dude looked much older than eighteen. He was kind of freaky yet not so intimidating. One could compare him to that Philadelphia rapper Freeway. After making my bed I sat there and took in the entire scene. My particular cell was painted light blue with writing on the walls that read—
Bok is a pussy—for a good time call faggot ass Ronny—Keyon was here 2005—me and my bitch
and finally
suck my dick.

“Chow up,” called the C.O. from the bottom tier as all the cell doors began to unlock.

“Yo man, it's time for chow,” said J-Rock, hopping down from the top bunk and stepping into his slides. He sported a tight wife beater and county blue bottoms.

“What's chow?” I asked quietly but didn't want to make it obvious that I was naïve.

“That mean it's time to eat, nigga,” he responded. Good, because I was hungry anyway. The last thing I remember myself eating was breakfast yesterday morning. We all began to exit the cell. I saw all types of Philadelphians making their way to the chow hall. Some of them I knew from growing up around the way but I made sure not to make eye contact.

Once we got to the chow hall, there was a long line of everyone waiting for their meal. I stood at the tail end holding a plastic cup and a plastic fork. After about ten minutes, I finally reached my turn at the window.

“Ain't you that dude that owns that hair salon on South Street?” said a ghetto, young girl as she gave me my tray. The other inmates that surrounded me started to take heed.

“Who, girl? Let me see who he is because right about now I need me a hairdresser up in this bitch,” said a petite girl pushing the other girl out of the way. To my surprise that girl was Miss
Hardcore
herself—Lil' Kim. She looked at me and smiled as she pulled my tray back in to direct the other girl to add more eggs and sausage to my tray.

“You know how to do hair?” she asked standing there with her big brown eyes and of course no makeup with her hair in two braids sporting her county reds. In the federal prison, the women wore red.

“Yes, I own Ché Mystic down in South Philly. What do you know about South Philly?” I asked, taking my tray.

“Chile, since I been in here I learned a lot of Philadelphia. Yo, check it. Can you hook my hair up for me?” I gave her a grizzly look and searched my surroundings. She was asking me if I could do her hair as if we were on the street.

“Kim, how am I gonna do that? We're in jail,” I said, switching my body from left to right.

“Nigga, I got pull in this whole muthafuckin' prison. I can do what the fuck I wanna do. Just because I'm locked the fuck up don't make me a slouch. Go 'head and eat your breakfast. I'ma have someone come get you from ya cell in a half hour,” she said, talking with her hands as she turned and walked to the back of the kitchen.

I took a seat at the end of the table in the chow hall and ate my breakfast. Thanks to Kim, I had a full meal and I really appreciated it because I was starving.

After leaving the chow hall and before going back to my cell I stopped in the dayroom to use the phone. I had the option of doing that before lockdown. The phones stood on the wall as if they were payphones but they weren't. Everyone had to be called collect. The first call that I made was to my mother.

“Hello,” she greeted in her normal weary voice.

“
Bell Atlantic has a collect call from Juan Jiles at the Philadelphia Federal Correctional Facility. To refuse this call, hang up. If you accept this call do not use three-way or call waiting features or you will be disconnected. To accept this call dial one now.”
The phone turned total silent meaning she wished not to accept my call.

The next person that I needed to call was Rob. Fortunately for me he picked up the phone on the first ring and accepted the call.

“Hello,” I greeted.

“Girl, what the fuck are you doing with drugs in your house? I am so damn mad at you.”

“Damn, Rob, can you cut me some slack. They're not my drugs. My boyfriend planted them there,” I said in my defense.

“Well, did
your boyfriend
know that he was gonna get you in this much trouble?” he said in a sarcastic voice.

“Look, Rob, I don't need this shit right now, okay? But I do need your help,” I said, changing the subject.

“Well, I may be the employee and you may be my boss, but I'm out here and you're in there so you're gonna listen to me. You have to do something with that ignorant-ass nigga you call a boyfriend. Now whatever you need me to do, I already did it.” He stopped me in my tracks.

“Rob, what do you mean, you already did it?”

“I already went to the salon and went through your Rolodex and called your lawyer Mr. Robert Datner, I think his name is?”

“Yes.”

“Well, he's already on the case and he'll have you out by tomorrow morning,” he said as my heart felt so relieved. I took a deep breath and smiled.

“Thanks, Rob, you know what? I owe you one.”

“Yes, you do, girl, and first we're going to start with a raise,” he hissed. “Plus, you have a strange message on your voice mail from your former employee Jeff that I think you need to listen to,” he added.

“Okay, I'll listen to it first thing when I get home. What I need you to do is make sure everything in the shop is locked up and I'll call you first thing when I get out. Okay?”

“Okay,” he responded. I held the phone close to my ear for privacy as the other inmates starting coming back on the block from chow.

“And Rob…”

“Yeah.”

“I really appreciate all that you're doing for me. I love you,” I said before ending the call. I did that for a reason because I wasn't prepared for what his response was gonna be and I couldn't show my feminine side behind these walls.

“Yo, did you read the paper today?” J-Rock asked Dre.

“Naw, why? What was in there?”

“They talkin' 'bout some bull that owns a hair salon in south Philly. The Po-Po ran up in his crib and took his shit. Man, they said that they found over two hundred fifty thousand dollars' worth of drugs in his crib
and
found a burner underneath his bed.”

“Damn, fa' real,” said Dre, now lying down on his bunk. “Man, that nigga gonna do some time for that shit.” My heart began pumping faster and faster praying that Rob came through like he said he would. I knew he wasn't lying because he said my attorney's name. Rob wouldn't lie about something like that anyway. Besides Anthony, Rob was the closet thing to me.

“Nunber nine-eight-one-five-seven-one, the counselor needs to see you,” yelled the C.O.
What the hell did the counselor want to see me for?
I jumped from my bunk and waited for my cell door to unlock and slide open. As I walked the tier people were staring at me through the slit of their windows watching me walk off the block. I followed the C.O. as he led me to the barbershop area where Kim was sitting in one of the barber chairs. I walked into the air conditioned room as Kim was reading the paper and talking to another female inmate.

“Yo, let me find out that this is your ass up in this paper stashing drugs in your crib. What's that all about?” she asked in her tiny toned voice.

“Yo, that's not my shit, that's my dude's shit,” I stated as Kim listened to me closely.

“Well yo, all I'm gonna say is that you better say the right shit in court because if you don't they gonna throw your ass in here like they did me. No, I'm not sayin' snitch on the nigga, just say the right shit,” she schooled. I sat down in the barber's chair next to hers.

“Yo, I'm telling you. Those muthafuckin' judges can be shiesty when it comes to handling these nigga cases and they don't play when it comes to perjury. Shit, I'm a living fuckin' example,” she continued. “But one thing about me is niggas like to sleep on my shit. Nigga, don't sleep on my shit 'cause when I hit the streets, shit, they gonna hear me comin'. Now what's up with this hair? You gonna fix this shit for me or what, Baby?

“And if I like it, I'ma send you beaucoup clients. I'm talking about major stars in this industry so let's get it rolling.” She pointed to the station where she set. “Here's the only shit you can use. You can't use any extension hair.”